


Unprepared

by McColSHLoki



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, johnlock - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Own Interpretation of After The Fall, post reichenbach fall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-29 04:12:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1000738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McColSHLoki/pseuds/McColSHLoki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*A Johnlock fanfic, starting a week and bit after Sherlocks fall.* John is broken and having a difficult time coping with his death and various feelings for the man he had just watched die. Sherlock is having just as hard a time coping with his actions, and his humanity begins to show in the smallest cracks, eventually blossoming and becoming a dangerous adversary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unprepared

"Here we are, sir: 221B Baker Street."

John looked up out of the cab window. Sure enough, there it was, looming over the street, a bold and handsome looking building; a punch in the stomach. 221B: Home. No, it wasn't home, not anymore. Home was where Sherlock was, and now the flat was void of any of his blunt truth, his wittiness, his sharp and precise intelligence. His things were gathered in boxes now, labelled various things like 'science' or 'books', scrawled in Mrs. Hudson's feminine handwriting. Never again would John hear his deep and curvy voice that lured you in, his snide but beautiful remarks that would make you think he hated you but his eyes would tell you otherwise, his sheer and brilliant intelligence and crazed but correct views of everything and everyone. Baker Street would forever be absent of that absurd man and Johns heart would never be the same, a crater that would be fine if you just didn't look at it. But the crater was so big, it was hard not to. John had come back to grab Sherlock's things and bring them away, perhaps to a school as Mrs. Hudson had suggested.

It had been over a week since… he hadn't been able to say it out loud since his last therapist session and even then… just a day ago he had been able to think it which is what made him finally be able to pluck up the courage and face this, but now…

"Uh, sir?" started the cabbie. "Are you OK? Is this not the right address?" John's eyes snapped up to the front of the cab and stared at the mirror. He could see his eyes and they were pained, watering. He sucked in a shaky breath and resumed his mask.

Clearing his throat he put a hand on the door handle and grabbed his things.

"Erhm, yes. Thank you." He grabbed a few notes and handed them to the cabbie as he opened the door and stiffly got out, gripping his cane tightly, leaning on it as a life support, as he had nothing else to lean on, no one else. Pain shot in his leg but it did not dull what his heart was doing. He absently noticed the cabbie nodding and telling him to have a nice day, but he could not take note of it. 221B now stood before him. He thought he would be able to handle it but as he stood there, the pain crashed around him but he did not let his mask slip, not now. He pursed his lips and his brow furrowed. Thudding the door shut behind him, he flicked his hand as a thank you to the cabbie and heard the engine roar and then fade away as it puttered down the street.

Clouds hung in the atmosphere, hiding the sun. The sun. In a few hours night would begin to descend but he knew that the clouds would persist, and they would hide the stars and the moon, Jupiter, Venus, mars… Something caught in his throat and he attempted to clear it, fruitlessly. Taking in a stuttering breath, he leaned on his cane as he began to limp towards the door. Up the few steps. He was so close now, closer then he thought he could get. His fingers began to graze the cold doorknob. Just grasp it in his hand, a twist of the wrist and maybe he could face his fears. Maybe. But then he looked up, looked at the curtains that hung in their flat. No, it wasn't anymore, it wasn't theirs. It was his. No, he couldn't think about that. NO. Before he could stop it, his mind flew through the images of himself leaving the flat, night cloaking the place, lamps lighting the street. He would walk down the steps and look up, maybe just in time to see the curtains fall back into place before walking away again and shaking his head, but sometimes he would catch Sherlock looking down on him, watching him make his way across the street away from where he longed to be, with someone he longed to be with. Their eyes would lock, though you couldn't see it, you could feel it. They would hold a simple conversation: Sherlock and John

"Don't go."

'Really?'

"Yes."

But neither would act on this unspoken words and though the longing was clear and there, John would turn back around and keep on walking into the night.

Pain tore its way across his chest and a strangled sob burst from his lips. His heart was in a vice grip now, guts twisting painfully. Tears began to cascade down his face and he knew, he knew it. He could not go up there. Not now. Maybe never. But he would have to. He knew he would. Just not now. He would never be able to speak those words, nor he ones he truly yearned to say. The words could never exist, because he had never said them.

He turned on the spot and trudged away

"Sherlock, stop it, stop this." he muttered as though Sherlock could hear him. But he knew he couldn't. He never would. But John couldn't stop himself from saying these words over and over as though saying them would somehow make them true.

He started his way down the street which was painted a bleak gray, tugging at his heart. He tried to collect himself, but images of Sherlock kept glancing in his brain, making it a struggle. The way he had assessed him the first moment that John had walked into the lab, his perfectly untamed hair parting way for his devilish eyes. He remembered the way excitement lit up his face, the way he had looked at him with such concern when he had made John feel like he was nothing to him, his voice as he stood there on the roof, facing his death.

He had not been paying attention to where he had been heading and had found himself at a crosswalk. The light across the way forbade him from continuing, as well as the vehicles that whizzed by in flashes and glints of light and colour, their wheels pressing the asphalt, people sitting inside perfectly oblivious to those around them. He stopped at the edge and straightened up, military style against his cane, a stature he had readopted after Sherlock's... Shoving that thought away uselessly, he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before opening them up again. He then looked at the world in a different, dangerous shade. He could simply walk out there; drop his cane, step down and away from the curb; look sideways just in time to see the glint of a grille, the horrified face of the driver. Hear the engines purr, the brakes squeal, the drivers yells. Feel the grateful crunch of contact, the hard and unforgiving asphalt against his unshaven cheek and his head crack against it, perhaps like Sherlock's had: an end- an end to this living hell that had gone up around his life, a hell full of regret, dread and forlorn. He could join him. Join Sherlock.

The light across the way and the busy, heavy hum of the vehicles told him that he could not pass the street, but did the step up to the ledge stop Sherlock? Did the thought of what death would mean to those who cared about him have any effect? Sherlock had believed that he had been alone but John, well, he truly was. Every thought of John's came back to Sherlock and he could not stop them. Perhaps Sherlock would fade away with time, time making him forget Sherlock's face, his rich resonating voice, his witty remarks and straight forward talk. Maybe it would be good for John, to forget. But he didn't want to, he refused to. Anger bubbled up inside of him. Had he not thought to tell John more, to really talk to him? He had been a coward, ran away, he had been selfish. Didn't he know what he meant to John?

Just a few steps and he could ask him all that, just a few steps and all this would be over, no more hell on earth. He could talk to him, tell him what he wanted to say, tell him all, everything that he never said but should have. He could. But the light had turned and the vehicles squeed to a halt and the world turned back to the right shade, though not for the last time. He leaned to his side and began his way across the street to god-knows-where but met no flash of car, no horrified yells, no crunching bones on metal, no blissful getaway. He was still hatefully alive. And completely alone. Again. A few lone tears cut their way down his cheeks again.

"Don't. Be. Dead."

Sherlock watched from across the street, his scarf hung around his neck in the usual manner though his classic coat has spots of wear upon it. His hair which was typically nicely washed though perhaps lacking a proper grooming was helterskelter, his curls adorning his head in a loose manner. He peered through his lids, forehead scrunched up in worry. His cheeks were hollowed out slightly, making his cheekbones that much more prominent and his nose was smudged with filth. He had been staying with his Homeless network for days after his fall, learning the ways of those who had helped him save his friends, hurt himself, but had nonetheless been a great aid to him.

A black cab stopped outside 221B and rested there idly. He could see movement inside: John. He did not move but just stared up at the flat. The cabbie- who was an obvious bachelor by the way he moved as well as a pothead judging by the way he moved his mouth and did not have a cent to his name which he tried to cover up was evident in his clean but clearly outdated clothing- leaned his head back and talked to John. His stabbed at Sherlock but he tried to suck back this gush of emotion. He did his best to keep it under the covers, but he could feel its pull, trying to bring him under, make him feel human. But it's not as though this feeling was new to him, humanity. He felt it every time he watched John care, it was humbling, to watch ordinary people feel things, it leaks into your own system, makes you feel as well.

John clambered from the cab. He hovered a few seconds; hand on car door, shaking slightly. Fear, anxiety. He leaned heavily on his cane, readjusted his hand. Weak, tired, hasn't slept in days judging by the way he holds his head. He suddenly remembered how people would tell him to piss off if he told them these things, when he read them like an open book and how John was the only to find it… fascinating.

He bade the cabbie good bye and continued to stare at the flat, obviously reluctant to approach it. He then limped his way towards the front door. He had readopted his psychosomatic limp, and in heavy this turn. Alone, useless feeling, always felt that way when he wasn't active, but this time was different… He was missing something. Surely not… He had now made his way to the door and his fingers touched the handle. Pausing. His head jerked upwards, towards their window. His body suffered a full tremor and his frame could feel his mind racing. Trauma, depression, pain.A cry elicited from his lips. Hurt, sorrow. Goddammit John, turn around. Sherlock was too far away to truly asses his friend, but just even his face could tell him a story. He knew that face so well; the wrinkles on his forehead when he worried, the curve of his frown, the pull of his hair line, and the arc of his eye brows when he found something of interest, the intent gaze of his grey eyes when their eyes locked. He knew his movements by heart, in the way he walked, the way he moved his fingers fluidly across the keyboard, his stature when he stood military fashion, the tilt of his chin.

John was now moving away, quickly though still relying heavily on his cane. Sherlock was filled with a great and burning desire to rush to his side, embrace him and tell him he was there, it was alright, he was back, that he had never left. The hurt prickled at Sherlock, his eyes widening at this feeling of utter discomfort. He fought at this feeling, and the rising feel at the back of his throat, as though it were being blocked by an object of emotion, threatened to choke him. But if he thought that this was pain and sadness, it was nothing compared to his reaction to Johns words.

As John stepped away from home, 221B, Sherlock could hear him utter these words, watch the sides of his lips form these words, shadowed under his creased brow and tear stained cheeks.

"Sherlock, stop it, stop this." The words ripped Sherlock apart, but after years of practice and masking and ridding himself of emotion, he found such a demanding feeling a great and pressing force, capable of being shown through only the pursing of his tight lips falling into an 'O', and his eyes taking on a wide, pained and watery state.

"John." He gasped. His hand subconsciously reached out towards John as he turned a corner, away and out of sight. "I wish I could." He could hear Molly drive up behind him in a cab, cutting off this rare moment of pure and raw emotion. He clenched his jaw shut and ground his teeth, tilting his head up defensively. He stared up at the sky, thought of John's persistence that he should learn the solar system, that it mattered. It had in the end, but he was wrong, the world didn't rotate around the sun…

"John," he began shakily as he heard Molly get out of the cab and walk towards him. "I Love you."

"What?" It was Molly and she was stopped a few strides away from him, phone in hand with her hair pulled back in a pony was void of her usual lab coat and her face was creased with worry as she took in Sherlock's state. Blush dotted her cheeks, an obvious attempt to impress Sherlock in his state of : that was for ordinary people, but then again, his feelings were showing him that perhaps Moriarty was right, that he was ordinary. That awful feeling of doubt began to contaminate him again and he could feel his hands begin to shake in his pockets. Yes, his body was betraying him, he was settled down into human emotions and responses; ordinary.

"Sherlock, are you OK?" She asked, leaning in as she walked closer. "Have you been crying?" She pressed. He pursed his lips again and raised a hand from his pocket, touched his face. When he drew away his hand, his fingertips were wet.

"Sherlock, I'm here for you. You can tell me." She made and attempt to reach out for him but he recoiled.

"Molly, you know that I am grateful for what you have done for me, but I consider myself alone and your contact makes me believe otherwise." He said drearily.

She half smiled. "But you're not, you know that Sherlock. You have me and Mycroft and J-"

"The brother who betrayed me by sharing my life story, giving Moriarty perfect bait to tear me down? That is what I have for company? Big comfort, Molly." He snapped. He turned to look at her; she was taken aback and obviously offended. He would delve further but he honestly could care less.

"And J-" It was as though he could not speak. He swallowed and tried again. "I... Joh…"

He shook his head and strained his jaw. He turned his body to her.

"I'm sorry Molly. Thank you." He offered her his hand, which she took warily.

"So, have you talked to Mrs. Hudson yet?" he questioned. Molly nodded back.

"Yes, she thinks that I'm taking care of your things. She's left a key out somewhere."

"On the fence, tied up with a piece of blue ribbon. She's far too careless with these things." Molly looked at him and seemed as though she might ask him how he knew, but by now, she knew better. They crossed over to 221B, grabbed the key from the place that Sherlock said, opened the door and made their way up the stairs. They were mere feet from the door, walking in silence when a strange sound elicited from his lips. Molly glanced worriedly back at him and stopped at the door.

"Are you going to be OK? I can stay with you for a while, if you want."

"Lets' just get inside Molly." He replied. She put the key in the lock and turned it. The lock clicked and the door swung open.

It was a harsh slap in the face. The whole flat was familiar and homey, but it had obviously been a long while since someone had inhabited it, and it now lacked the loving feeling of being in use. The place was near empty, his things all gone, and his skulls spot lay vacant, the kitchen counter barren. Boxes were stacked on and around the coffee table, labelled with MrsHudson's handwriting and dotted with drops of what he could only deduce were tears. The one thing that remained the same was his chair, though it had a bizarre imprint on it, as though someone had rested their face in its seat for a while. He walked in a few steps, hands clasped behind his back. He stopped in front of the fireplace and turned around swiftly.

"Thank you Molly. You have been a great and resourceful friend these past days. I appreciate it. A lot."

"Whatever you need, I'm right here." She offered. He gave only the jerk of his head as a response. Molly shuffled awkwardly and looked at her shoes, which were scuffed.

"Well, that's it then, I guess. Ill be around later with some groceries and such. If you need clothes I can pick them up, take them to be cleaned, whatever you need until you're ready to… get out."

"Good." came his reply.

"Okay then. Well, goodbye for now I guess."

"Indeed."

She looked back up, studied his face. He felt as though he were under examination. But all he wanted was for her to leave; he couldn't stay this level for much longer.

"Yes, well, bye then."

"Yes. Good bye Molly. Thank you." He replied sharply. She nodded again, turned around and closed the door behind her softly, hearing it click shut. She began to make her way down the hall to the stairs in a hurry, but not fast enough to avoid hearing Sherlock scream, something shatter and him fall to the floor sobbing. So he was human, after all.


End file.
